


numquam timebunt umbrae

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Panic Attacks, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 04:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18652810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: But there’s too much of his mind preoccupied with the tightness in his chest, and the weight of the past two years, and the fact that the Stranger is looming somewhere in the distance, theneardistance, even here in the archives, and Jon is absolutely, undeniably going todie.





	numquam timebunt umbrae

Another recording his laptop accepts. That means it's not really supernatural, not really worth his time. So it's tedious work, boring and frustrating in turns. The average statement from their typical liars and attention seekers… they're all a waste of his time. Now more than ever, Jon just doesn't have the energy.

The workload continues. He'll do the recording even though it's pointless. That’s his job, after all, he… just has to hope the next one _isn't_ pointless drivel.

It's a little more than halfway through when his heart starts pounding. Odd. It's not one of their _strange_ cases; it really is boring at best, and there's no reason for his palms to itch. He thinks he's forgetting something. A double check on the recording– and it's fine, of course– before he starts rifling through the paperwork on his desk. Maybe… well, he isn't sure. He's forgetting something, and now it's going to _bother_ him.

Well. He'll think of it eventually. Likely when it’s not pertinent any longer, but… A quick sigh, and a few notes on the offside to the recording that he'll add on at the end. His tea's gone cold when he takes a sip; he makes a face and wonders if Martin's been around lately. It's overly sweet when it’s cold, almost makes him choke. And then he doesn't seem _quite_ able to catch his breath afterwards, even as he clears his throat. _Odd._

It’s when he starts sweating in the air conditioning Jon realizes something is _wrong._ His mind goes to the tea, immediately, paranoid thoughts of _poison_ or something as equally idiotic, except it’s _Martin_ who makes him tea and Elias being _Elias_ aside, he doesn’t think there _would_ be anything in the tea kept here at the Institute. Poison was a bit too _cunning._ Elias was more direct. But he can’t _think…_ if not the tea, then _what?_ He’s nearly shaking at this point, already drenched in sweat, and he is _acutely_ aware that he must be dying–

– something registers. The phrase clicks in his mind. It’s taken embarrassingly long for him to _realize:_  he’s having a panic attack. It has to be. Common enough, back in university, but he hasn’t had these in… ages. The smaller ones, the _anxiety_ ones, yes, occasionally, in the past two years. But an unprovoked _panic attack…_

He needs air. He needs to get out of this goddamn basement before the walls can start pressing in on him.

Somehow, he manages to cut off the recording, and then he’s fleeing for the exit. It doesn’t surprise him when he doesn’t get further than the hallway, but it does _dismay_ some part of him, the part that’s rational enough to know what’s happening and what’s about to, if he falls apart here. But there’s too much of his mind preoccupied with the tightness in his chest, and the weight of the past two years, and the fact that the Stranger is looming somewhere in the distance, the _near_ distance, even here in the archives, and Jon is absolutely, undeniably going to _die._ Of course he is. It was going to happen regardless, he figures. It’s just going to happen a bit sooner. Now. In the archives. Fitting. He’s the Archivist. Of course he has to die here, he’s certain it’s his destiny.

“Jon…? _Jesus,_ Jon!”

“Shit,” he breathes, and then Martin’s scrambling away from the file boxes and skidding to a stop next to his side.

“Jon– hey, Jon.”

His hands are on him, then, his arm and shoulder and Jon has to lean against the wall to keep himself upright. He thinks he makes some vague, noncommental noise, and breathes in sharp, shallow breaths that make him want to _choke._

“Okay, you’re okay, sit down? You should sit down. _Tim!”_ Jon jerks from the shout and Martin babbles off some apology. “Sorry! So sorry. Sit down, Jon, you’re okay.”

He’s not. _(he will be)_ But he doesn’t have much say on if he’s standing or sitting because his legs all but buckle beneath him, and Martin helps to ease his descent to the ground. There’s no hope in making it upstairs. Jon swallows the groan, and then feels like he’s going to vomit. Or swallow his own tongue. _(stupid)_

“Does it help to be around people?” Martin crouches in front of him. His face worried, and blurry. Jon realizes he must have tears in his eyes, or Martin’s face wouldn’t be blurry. “I mean, I’ll– I’m just, I don’t want to _touch_ you if you don’t like that–”

He doesn’t know. He’s always made a point _to_ be alone during these blasted things– minus the one, horrible time it had happened with Georgie– but he manages to shrug a shoulder, the most he’s able to answer right now.

“Okay.” Martin doesn’t seem to hesitate before he rests his hand on Jon’s wrist, but Jon thinks he’s losing seconds between his labored breathing and pulse rushing in his ears, so he’s not certain. “Here, just–” Martin takes his hand, and rests it against his own chest to hold there with both hands. “You gotta breathe, Jon. If you can’t match me, that’s okay, but try, a bit.”

Why bother if he was going to die, anyway? _(breathe. right. a bit.)_ Probably, Elias can find another Archivist. Martin feels like he’s breathing _far_ too fast. Jon’s lungs can’t keep up. He drags in one breath, and then another, and Martin rattles some praise that feels more _bad_ than it does _good._ He is so very _woozy._

“I know it seems pretty, well, _bad–”_

 _“Seems,”_ he forces out, because that is _laughable._ This is _terrible._ It _has_ been terrible. It will not _stop_ being terrible until they are _dead,_ or the Stranger is defeated. And he could tell Martin _right this instant_ which was _easier,_ and which was more likely.

“Seems,” Martin repeats. It’s with such confidence and clarity that it momentarily derails Jon.

“What did you–” Tim stops halfway down the hall. “Jesus, Jon.” It’s probably the closest to _concerned_ Tim’s sounded in… Jon doesn’t remember. It’s fair. It all is.

“Oh, good, just– just come here.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s having a panic attack.”

Tim looks at Martin. Jon, too, has been vaguely wondering how Martin had seemed to know, right from the start.

“I–I just, I mean, I think he is. This _is_ usually what a panic attack looks like, so I’m just… yeah, here.” He gestures to the floor next to them. “Now, please, he needs our help.”

“How can I _possibly_ help?” Still, Tim crouches down next to the both of them, the corners of his lips turned down. “Haven’t you noticed, Martin, that we haven’t really _gotten on_ lately?”

“I don’t care about your little _feud,”_ Martin hisses. He presses Jon’s fingers a little more firmly into his chest, and Jon takes another breath. Right. Breathing. He’s supposed to keep breathing, isn’t he? “Get over it, for now, then you can go back to hating each other or whatever the hell you’re both on about.”

“Fine.” Tim looks between them. “Well? What am I supposed to do?”

“Just hold his hand, or– or something.”

_“What?”_

Jon makes a tiny, tiny noise. He thinks it’s dismayed, but he isn’t sure. Everything is dismay. His breath catches, and his fingers seize into Martin’s old, worn jumper.

_“Tim.”_

“Fine. _Fine._ Why the hell not?” he mutters, and offers his hand. He holds it out for Jon to take even as he looks away with what’s a pronounced disgruntled look on his face. Jon can make out _that_ displeasure even through the haze.

Jon is slightly resolute that he is not going to take Tim’s hand. _(despite the fact that he knows this is the first time Tim has even been_ talked _into doing something for_ Jon’s _benefit, and not for_ work, _and it’s a step towards something back to normalcy if they weren’t both so damn stubborn–)_ But then he recognizes that he’s wheezing, and realizes he’s going to pass out if he doesn’t breathe properly, and something in him _lurches_ like he’s missed a step on the stairs, like Michael Crew _looking_ at him and he’s falling, _falling–_

He grips Tim’s hand so hard that he vaguely hears the man make a noise, but then Jon’s coughing, and he can’t continue to listen.

Martin must keep speaking, though. When Jon’s able to hear again, when the ringing in his ears finally dies down enough that he can make out words, Martin’s talking about how they should all go out for a drink, like Melanie and Basira have been doing lately, because they all should have some time to relax and it’s not like Elias can stop them going out and getting _drunk._

Tim mumbles an agreement, and something about _‘getting to forget.’_

Jon breathes in again. Martin’s chatter stops. It feels like the universe shifts again, but it’s less… pronounced. He isn’t going to drown in the vastness of the sky that he can’t see from here. Similarly, he isn’t going to choke on case files and old books. Or maybe it’s not similar at all. Nothing much makes sense, still. But the rise and fall of Martin’s chest beneath his hand is regular now, and comforting.

“Told you it was helping,” Martin hisses, and Tim just sighs.

Funny. Martin’s still loosely holding Jon’s hand to his chest, and Jon's still hanging onto Tim’s with his other hand by his own volition. For trying so very hard to _distance_ himself in hopes of protecting them, for so stubbornly trying to cling to his solitude, the touch is… grounding. He doesn’t think he’d be able to describe how much so, but, thankfully, Martin’s asking easier questions.

“D’you need anything, Jon…? We’re here if you do, just let us know.”

He thinks he can answer this time. He inhales experimentally, and feels out the syllable on his tongue. “… no.” It’s still a battle, and he has to puff out a short breath afterwards. He’s still shaking, minutely, still something he can’t control. But he keeps himself going, while he has the strength to do so. “Just… a moment…” _(or two)_

“Yeah! No problem. Take as long as you need.”

“But not that long,” Tim mutters, and Jon is actually able to discern the look of irritation Martin shoots at Tim for the comment. “What? My hand hurts and my arse is asleep.”

“God, Tim, what if this was you?”

The sarcastic comment doesn’t come. Tim just shrugs, and looks away.

Another deep breath. Jon breathes in for three whole seconds – a success. It rushes out in half the time, missing his mark of balance– failure. He does it again, and fairs slightly better. He’ll take it. Even as he’s doing this, he’s starting to notice little things. Not about himself, but the others. Martin’s voice is a little raspy. Jon knows the feeling well enough, when the statements run on too long and he’s left to gulp down a glass of water after the fact. And he thinks? Martin had been holding his hand with both of his, but now it’s just the one, and the other hand’s pressed against the floor for balance. Tim, Jon knows, had been crouched next to them, but now he’s sitting on the floor whole, legs splayed beneath him.

Vaguely, Jon is starting to grasp that they’ve been sitting here for a long while.

Fitting… logical. It explains why _he_ feels stiff, too, part of the reason why his body still won’t work with him the way it should. And he’s _tired._ Exhausted, truly, completely wrung out as always follows one of these attacks. _(and the humiliation. but he won’t. can’t. think about that right now.)_ His shirt’s drenched through with sweat. Another button on his collar is undone, but he can’t remember if he’d done that, or Martin had. Both of his hands feel numb, and the one Tim’s holding is clammy. He wants to move, but fears doing so may bring about a whole other host of sensations that he’s not sure he has the mental acuity to process right now. So he just… stays, and breathes, and focuses on the two main sensations: the rise and fall of Martin’s chest, and the slowing throb of his pulse felt in how tightly he’s gripping Tim’s hand.

He stops looking after a moment, afraid he’ll set the reactions off all over again. Overanalyzing has always been his downfall. For now, he lets his eyes slip shut instead. Just a moment, he’d said. Just a moment more.

 

 

“… he’s asleep.”

“Yeah.”

Martin frowns as he looks at Jon. Jon, still slumped back against the wall, chin tucked to his chest as his head droops in sleep. His cheeks are still damp. The hand Martin’s been sort of holding’s gone slack against his jumper. Probably same with Tim, too, although it’s a little surprising he hadn’t tossed Jon’s hand away the moment he’d dropped off. But Jon… really looks like hell. Even now. So that probably does it.

This whole thing’s been a little more terrifying than he wants to admit, but he’s _shaken_ at seeing Jon so… defenseless. Even if Martin’s been there before, more… more times than he can count. But he’s Martin and Jon’s Jon, so… this hurts. A lot.

“So…” Tim starts. “What now?”

"Umm… uh, can we maybe… well, he needs to rest." He’s in no state to drive, right now, and probably won’t be for awhile. Martin prides himself on the fact he only hesitates a few seconds longer before finally, unhappily, relinquishing Jon’s hand.

As if prompted by this, Tim finally wriggles his free too, and grimaces as he flexes his fingers. “Yeah, and?”

“Can we get him to the spare room…?”

“As in…”

“Carry… him?”

“I could. But I’m not.”

“Tim–”

“Look, he’s _asleep,_ not dead.” Martin winces. That brings up his own personal kind of anxiety he can’t afford to think about. “If I tried to _bodily_ move him, he’ll just wake up and start complaining about work,” Tim’s saying. “So if we can coax him him to bed, fine. But he’s going to have to work with us a little.”

He’s probably right, really. He knows Jon probably feels like hell right now, but if he gets woken up enough to be fully conscious, he’ll probably just want to go back to whatever he’d been doing regardless. Maybe, if they’re gentle… “… alright,” Martin relents. “If we’re careful, he might not even really wake up enough to notice…”

“Banking on it. Get his other side, will you?”

“Yeah.”

It’s a little awkward, but they manage to get him to documents storage. Jon stays half groggy through it, eyes slipping closed even as they help him to the bed. If Jon’s conscious enough to understand what’s going on, Martin guesses he’s decided that they’re right, and he needs the sleep. He hadn’t even known Jon _had_ panic attacks. Maybe he’s used to dealing with them this way, dragging himself to bed afterwards. Or maybe he just stays, curled in a ball, wherever he collapses from the attack.

Martin… probably shouldn’t think about it. He already hurts enough as is, and it’s not like Jon’s going to want to talk about it when he wakes up for real, anyway. So he tries to dismiss it, and settles the blanket loosely around Jon’s shoulders. “There… he’ll be okay.”

“Yeah, a real Sleeping Beauty.” Tim sighs, and then continues, a little softer, “you staying here with him?”

“Yeah…” Martin drags his gaze away from Jon. It’s hard to look away. The whole thing’s been a bit like a car crash, except Jon looks _mostly_ peaceful now. He hopes his dreams won’t be nightmares. “Uh, yeah– I’m gonna grab the boxes I was working on, and bring them here, but you can probably just… go home…? I know he had more for us to do, but… don’t really know where to begin.”

“Right.”

“And he probably won’t be up to it, anyway.”

“Right,” Tim repeats, and, for a second, Martin thinks Tim looks as lost as the rest of them. It doesn’t last long, just for a moment, and then it’s just back to business. “I’ll go, then. Just… call if you need anything. I guess?”

Martin smiles, even if he thinks it feels a little washed out. “I’ll try not to need anything,” he jokes. Sort of jokes, but Tim just nods, anyway.

“Good. Thanks… well. Night.”

“Night, Tim,” he murmurs, and finally breathes out unhappily once the man goes. Things are never going to be the same as they used to be, but Martin likes to hold onto some hope that they can be _close._ He doesn’t think he’d survive without his own… infinite, weary optimism.

After another quick glance at Jon, he goes to collect the boxes. He’ll stay for awhile longer, to be sure Jon doesn’t wake up, confused and alone. That’s one thing he’ll never let Jon be. One thing that really never will change, optimism or lack thereof aside.

There’s work to do in the meantime. Maybe he can lighten some of Jon’s burdens this way, if nothing else. He knows he’s going to try, and goes to get those files.

**Author's Note:**

> me, frantically throwing every idea I've had into the fandom: (┛◉Д◉)┛彡┻━┻  
> anyway this was an idea since like... episode 3 LOL  
>  


End file.
